Let's toddle along to the piano and amuse each other." She nodded, and together they made their way to the West Parlour.
"Have you written anything new ?" he asked, turning over some sheets of scribbled, manuscript that were lying on the piano.

"Let's hear it." Rather reluctantly she played him a few odd bits of her recent work--the outcome of dull, depressing days.
Sandy listened, and as he listened his lips set in an uncompromising straight line.
"Well, I never heard more maudlin piffle in my life!" was his frank comment when she had finished.

"If you can't do better than that, you'd better shut the piano and go digging potatoes." Nan laughed rather mirthlessly.
"I don't know what sort of a hand you'd make at potato digging," pursued Sandy.

"But apparently this is the net result of your musical studies"-- and, seating himself at the piano, he rattled off a caustic parody of her performance.
"Rank sentimentalism, Nan," he said coolly, as he dropped his hands from the keys.

"And you know it as well as I do." "Yes, I suppose it is.